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Updated: June 25, 2025
This house was one of such homesteads as the genius sang of: a low, old-fashioned, brown-walled, gray-shingled house; with chimneys generous, with green window-shutters less than green and white window-sills less than white; with feudal vines giving to its walls their summery allegiance; not young, not old, but standing in the middle years of its strength and its honors; not needy, not wealthy, but answering Agar's prayer for neither poverty nor riches.
Almira Todd, which stood with its end to the street, appeared to be retired and sheltered enough from the busy world, behind its bushy bit of a green garden, in which all the blooming things, two or three gay hollyhocks and some London-pride, were pushed back against the gray-shingled wall.
It was a small, gray-shingled dwelling, sitting back from the road in the shadow of two ancient "silver-leafs," and Mr. Bangs seemed to find its appearance surprising. "Are you are you SURE this is the Hall cottage?" he stammered. "Am I sure? Me? Well, I ought to be. I've lived in East Wellmouth all my life and Josh Hall's lived in this house ever since I can remember."
Hall sent me that ah last June I think it was in June," explained Mr. Bangs, hurriedly. "But you SEE," he added, waving an agitated hand toward the gray-shingled dwelling beneath the silver-leafs, "that CAN'T be the house, not if" with a wave of the photograph in the other hand "if THIS is." Mr. Pulcifer took the postcard and stared at it. His brows drew together in a frown.
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